The Watchman
by iHEARThyuuga
Summary: Hey! Are you all right?, II'm not sure where I am. Tilly lacey is an ordinary uni grad who works at a Soho bakery, until Joe crashes, headlong into her world bringing with him mysterious stories of a land which she can't believe in.


**Err, hi. This is the first chapter of a book I've being trying to write for some time, now. It's based on a series of dreams I had this summer, which were perhaps some of the most vivid dreams I have ever had. Please read and review, I want your opinion. Thanks.**

**Love from**

**iHEARThyuuga**

**xxx**

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**The** **Watchman **

**Chapter 1**

I don't know why I'm writing, why I choose to tell you this; they say that the heaviest burdens can be shared. I don't know why I'm writing. You see, I am not what you call a writer, I have never studied literature nor can I claim to be a great reader, but there is something that I think happened, an age ago. Something I cannot prove but neither can I forget. I have, needless to say, never spoken of these occurrences to a soul before today, before now. Yet instead of confiding in somebody who I hold some meaningful bond of trust with, I choose to tell you. A complete stranger.

I can imagine your thoughts now, as you read this. You are, perhaps thinking that this is the wrong book for you, you fancied something light-hearted, something easy to read. In that case you should probably put this book down as light-hearted it is not.

You may be wondering at the drivel that gets published these days, you have read the first paragraph (nearly) and have in fact decided that you are all together fed up with the sheer amount of archetypal ghost stories, thrillers and other self-proclaimed modern masterpieces. I can only reply that this is not a ghost story and it is not a thriller, it is merely a sequence of peculiar events which may or may not have happened to me.

You must be, by now wondering what on earth these events are, I have now kept you reading for a fair amount of time, so it is now that I choose to start my story, short though it is.

My story starts ten years ago, at that time I was a university graduate employed by a small bakers in the heart of London, it's amazing where a degree will get you career wise! Being only in my early twenties, I could not complain about my occupation, in fact I own to enjoying it. My shift would start at 4:30 each morning and finish at 9:00 am. I found myself frequenting bars and venues in the area until the early hours when I would return home, change into my uniform and head to work. Needless to say, most of my time at that place was spent either half-asleep or still drunk. I was living the student life whilst my friends and classmates worked nine to five for banks and car manufacturers.

My job was to make up the bread dough and shape it ready to go into the oven at 8:00 every morning, imagine it now, can you see it? The streets outside are dark, the street light-there is only one- is reflected in the cracks of the pavement where rain water has gathered. It is cold outside and the wind can be heard rattling the doors and floods down the chimney into the kitchen.

At this time breath condenses almost before it leaves the mouth and those who work the early shift have developed a keen taste for whisky or at this time of year, brandy for it is December. The first thing we do is turn on the bread oven, this particular bakery boasts of authentic french bread so it is naturally a stone, coal fuelled oven, we are apt to lean against the metal door of that oven soaking in its heat.

One thing that I particularly remember about that shop was the smell, there was always a heavy smoky smell from the oven due probably to a faulty chimney. There was also of course the beer-like smell of the yeast, which is still my favourite smell in the entire world. Think of the smell of dried yeast, it smells musty and dry, it comes in pellets or powder and is beige in colour. You pour it into the bread machine and that is all you see of it. In the bakery, we used fresh yeast. Fresh yeast is different, it still has that musty smell, but it is also sour and sharp the scent paints a picture, you can smell the early mornings, the bread oven which warms the cold hands of the workers, smell the flour, the poppy seeds, sesame seeds, herbs and spices. At least, I can. But maybe that's just because I experienced all of these.

I would leave the bakery as the first customers were arriving and walk back to my flat where I would sleep in until the evening, when the cycle would start again.

I think, like is the case with most real-life adventures my story starts with a surprisingly insignificant event. You see, I had my older brother down to visit who was not only ten years older then I, but also somehow managed to hold disdain for almost everything I did. He could not understand how someone with a degree in medicine ended up working in a bakery.

"Come on Matilda you've spent enough time mucking about. Why don't I ring the hospital tomorrow, I'm sure they will gladly let you have your job back, It would be so beneficial."

"I got bored" was all I could ever tell him. I had given up correcting him over my name, I was christened Matilda Lacey but I had always been known as Tilly to the point where I don't recognise Matilda anymore, as far as I am concerned it is someone else's name, not mine.

So, Robert, my brother, being down, had prevented me from going out the night before work, he would not have remained conscious had I told him that I went into work sometimes still drunk from the previous nights antics. We naturally watched endless news bulletins interspersed with various programmes about period architects or Henry VIII, that sort of thing. He went to bed at about 10:00 and I suppose I went an hour later, for lack of occupation.

It was a dark night, and I could not sleep there was something strangely eerie in the lack of wind or any movement or noise at all. It was one of those nights where something exciting was going to happen, there was a tension and I couldn't help fantasising about what may be happening under the cover of darkness, across the world. In New York I could have sworn there was a large gathering of armed robbers, maybe the beginnings of a riot. In the forests of north Siberia, the wolves were meeting to sabotage the human leaders. In Australia a handful of sky-watchers were preparing the landing strip for our alien neighbours. And in the heart of British countryside, a small child had discovered a world completely separate to this one. Or something like that. The thing was, I had no idea as to how close I really was.

It was the next morning that it started, I was racing down Berwick St. my scarf was streaming behind me and kept getting caught under my feet. I was late. It was a Monday, which meant that it was my turn to open up and light the oven, but it was also 5:00 so I was in a hurry.

As I came to the end of the street and stopped briefly to catch my breath, I caught sight of a young man. I caught sight of him mainly because of the large red coat he was wearing, he looked about my age and was running in the same direction as me, his face was contorted into a look of complete panic, or terror. His fringe was being pushed back by the wind and his eyes were wide. As he came level with me, he turned and paused, as if he too was catching breath. He looked straight at me his pale eyes, penetrating me like bullets, or how I'd imagine bullets to feel. I turned away, unable to hold his stare any longer and when I looked at the spot he had occupied, he was gone.

I looked up and down the street trying to locate him again, but I could not. I eventually concluded that he must have gone into one of the shops along the street. Maybe he too was late for work or one of the record shops had a very rare record in and he was racing to buy it at a reasonable price before someone who knew how valuable it was came and bought it. As it was only 5:00am he must have arranged a private buying so the record must be really valuable. He should be more careful, if he attracts attention to it someone else is more likely to buy it. They might put it up for auction, then he'd have to pay a lot more for it. I hoped that he'd get there in time, he looked so panicked, the record must have been very important.

I was contemplating whether to go into one of the record shops or not and find out which record he was buying, when I remembered the time, and my predicament. I stood up again and ran towards the back entrance of the bakery.

I was lucky, someone had already got in and lit the oven, there must have been a spare key. I hung up my coat and scarf and tied an apron round my waist. My fingers were cold so I leant against the oven door for a few minutes before hurrying with the bread.

The morning continued like any normal morning and I had almost forgotten the panicked man from Berwick St.. As I was cleaning down and getting ready to leave, the street was waking up and pedestrians were looking in our window, watching the bread being pulled out of the oven. I stopped to look, I admit I like to watch the customers looking, walking past the window, I like to see what they're wearing. Are they smiling, on the phone, talking to each other. I left the bakery and walked home, eating one of the hot mini baguettes for breakfast, as I rounded the corner of the street I lived on I saw a flash of red, and when I turned around again, he was there, looking at me again. Not smiling, no recognition even, just looking.

Have you ever had anyone stare at you before, it's uncomfortable, especially when you don't know them. How would you react? I know that some people's response would be to challenge the offender, but being someone who usually keeps themself to themself, I would rather he leave me alone so I could enter my flat. I tried to walk passed him but he put a hand out and stopped me, I inclined my head to look at him. It struck me, maybe he was an old schoolmate, or somebody from the hospital. I smiled, I didn't want to be rude to someone who may or may not be my 'almost-boss'.

"Clara?" He stared at me harder.

"I'm sorry, I don't know who you're talking about."

"But Clara, It's me, Joe! Don't-don't you remember?" He wasn't so emotionless now. I wondered if he was a ghost trapped on this world and I was the reincarnation of his long dead wife. It would explain his odd choice of clothing. A deep red knee length coat with black trousers and a shirt and waistcoat, he had a pocket watch chain as well.

I removed his hand and met his eye.

"I'm not Clara, I'm Tilly!"

"Tilly?" he looked distant again, I couldn't tell but I think he had taken a step back.

"Yes. Hey! Are you ok?" He was leaning on my front door, breathing heavily. His straw hair was plastered to is forehead with sweat and his pale blue eyes were wide

"I-I'm not sure where I am." With that he passed out, sliding down the front door. Usually I would have woken him up and maybe given him to the policeman at the end of the street, at most I would have helped him to the nearest GP, which was beyond Covent Garden. There was something about this man, and also the night preceding that made me think there was something more to him than sudden amnesia, besides one sure way to gain amusement would be to watch Robert's reaction when I dragged a strange unconscious man through my front door.

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**Thanks for reading, again, please review, it's really important to me.**


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